Years ago, a Chucky Report

Day 18. 51 pages, 23,853 words. Yes, done.

The following is a tale of a hilarious and foolish thing I did when I was a lad. I sent it to the local radio station for their Scottish DJ to read out on air, but apparently he had better things to talk about (he didn’t). Anyway, here’s the story in full.

In the mid ’90s I was a teenager living in Perth, Western Australia, and (as I’ve mentioned once or twice) I supplemented my night-shift income by playing the bagpipes in a professional pipe band.

On one occasion, my bandmates and I were unwinding after a competition, using a time-honoured method known as “dozens and dozens of pints.” We were at the bar of a local hotel near where we’d been playing, and we were resplendent in our uniforms, of which obviously the kilt was a distinctive – nay, definitive – part.

Some ladies approached me and asked whether I was Scottish. Being several pints, a number of shots and a bourbon or two in the hole at this stage, I replied “AYE” and proceeded to talk to them in a shockingly bad Scottish accent. I believe I told them I was from Glasgow, and for my accent cue used equal parts Billy Connolly and Trainspotting. My trick for getting into Scottish-accent form is to think the phrase “I am no longer constipated.” Just FYI.

Anyway, the ladies were impressed and we were getting on fine. Then one of my bandmates – let’s call him Shambles – approached and they asked him where he was from.

“Perth!” he said, in his normal Australian accent, and laughed.

“No no,” I told him, Scottishly, “no ye’re not.”

Shambles, bless him, was not slow on the uptake. “Perth in Scotland, ye daft bastard!” he shot back.

I’m not sure to this day whether the ladies bought this, or how they thought we were in a band together but didn’t know where each of us lived when we weren’t touring Australia for whatever reason.

Anyway, the evening was highly enjoyable, and Shambles and I found ourselves returning to the ladies’ house after closing time. Nothing untoward happened, I should assure you, although we did continue to be a pair of touring Scottish bagpipers from Perth and Glasgow respectively.

You would think that after a moderate and entertaining success, I would chalk this one up as a learner and move on with my life, hoping to never run into the ladies again in the booze-pits of my home city. However, as Shambles had pointed out, I was a daft bastard.

The next day I returned to the ladies’ house, as invited by them the night before, to continue drinking and making merry. Shambles, in the sober light of the day after, decided he had saner things to do than to go on pretending to be Scottish.

I, however, did not.

Upon arriving at their house, I was greeted by cries of “oh look, he’s got pants!” – because even in my gaping absence of forward planning I thought it would be strange for a touring bagpiper from Glasgow to come all the way to Australia with only his kilt. Still, the suspicious presence of trousers in my life passed without further remark, and we resumed our weekend of substance abuse.

It’s a strange fact – and actual Scots may not appreciate this – that it’s way easier to be Scottish when you’re wearing a kilt. However, getting drunk again cancelled out the stifling effect my pants were having on my inner Scotsman, and I wasn’t even concerned when some more of the ladies’ friends showed up.

One of these friends was an employee at the hotel we’d been drinking at the night before, and at which I had claimed to be staying with the rest of my band. At this point I had quite an extensive backstory. This friend claimed not to have seen a big party of Scottish guests at the hotel, and while this might have made a less inebriated liar break out in a panicky sweat, I believe I waved it off with a lazy “ach, nae bother.”

Somehow, owing possibly to the effforts of the patron saint of drunkards, I got out of there without being stabbed in the face and left in a ditch.

All in all it was a fun weekend, and not too much longer after that I picked up my pipes and moved to Finland, where the likelihood of my being recognised in a bar and chased down the road by an Australian woman screaming curses at me is slim to nil. Still, to this day I mildly regret the extraordinarily convoluted tissue of lies I crafted over the course of that weekend, and feel – quite rightly – like a daft bastard.

Also, I went to Glasgow in 2008 and it was nothing like I described it to the Australians. They didn’t even have a giant statue of William Wallace riding Nessie.

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Write Night #2

Day 17. 0 pages, 0 words.

Still too much work to do at the day job to get much done, although I’ve had a bit of success in the mornings and am feeling increasingly good anyway. Write Night ahead and I feel ready. I’m getting a heap of technical writing done, and although that doesn’t exactly scratch the itch, it is what I’m getting paid to do. It’s not everybody who can say they have a job thhey feel genuinely suited to.

I’m feeling upbeat because of the progress my assorted day-job projects are making, even though the pile of work is enormous and apparently ever-increasing. I guess it’s good, isn’t it, to have an endless supply of work? It’s not boring, anyway.

I’m also feeling good because the cover for Damorak is very, very close to completion. I had one final request for a change, but if it doesn’t work out I’m still happy with the latest version. So I suppose I will be posting that up here sometime in the next couple of days, and getting the publication underway.

FFoM (x6)

I’ll have to update the gif again too.

That’s it for now. I had big plans to write some other stuff today, but my employers had big plans for me to do my freaking job, so I guess I do my freaking job.

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*long, slow,hostile raspberry*

Day 16. 0 pages, 0 words. Screw it.

Yeah, got sod all written again today. Getting close but too many interruptions, too much bullshit. Fuck.

I’ll try to come up with something to write on the blog soon, instead of just complaining. Maybe when that 28-hour day comes in, I’ll have 4 hours to spare for doing what I was born to do.

That’d be exciting, wouldn’t it?

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Ahhh fuck it all

Day 15. 0 pages, 0 words. Shit shit shit.

Nah, it’s not that bad. I was a superhero at work today under insanely complicated circumstances, so I really had to focus. That meant I got no writing done in my spare minutes, because I had none.

And I’m heading into the final flurry of writing for short story #1, so as soon as I get a bit of time to sit and work on it, I’ll git ‘er done.

Just not today. Oh well.

summarise_yourself

In other news, this bit of sharebait is going around Facebook lately: Summarise yourself using three fictional characters. Of course I was a wanky toolwank, and decided to cut the Gordian Knot by strategic use of my alternate personas. Take that, all other fictional characters ever.
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Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Again)

Day 14. 0 pages, 0 words.

I reviewed this nine years ago, when we saw it at the cinema.

Watched it again with Wump last night, and it was as un-gripping as I remember. Wump was underwhelmed. Huge book, lots going on, and the movie managed to be a dull, cut-to-ribbons hodgepodge with nothing much to recommend it.

Still, fun evening.

We also watched the new Magnificent Seven movie on Friday. It was cool. I think the “original” had more heart, and the true original was a classic, but this was a fun action movie with plenty of nice Western tropes. Not quite Unforgiven, but close.

I was left wondering why they hadn’t made Suicide Squad as a retelling of the Magnificent Seven. The premise of the story perfectly suited the plot. Each character could have been properly introduced amidst the unfolding of the enemy scheme. And the whole thing is a reboot anyway, so plagiarism is apparently fine. It wouldn’t even have been the first movie to borrow the trope.

Also, this version of the movie was basically a played-straight version of Blazing Saddles.

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Saturday Thoughts

Day 13. 0 pages, 0 words.

On my best days, in my best hours, I have a bag of shit stuck to my stomach inside my shirt that could peel off and wreck my day at any moment. It’s brilliant that it’s so easy for everyone to forget this, but it kinda sucks too.

I love that Wump enjoys riding her bike so much, and it’s cool that she has a game where she rides over the paving stones and avoids the dark grey stones among the light grey ones. I just wish she didn’t have to call the game “Watch Out For The Blacks”.

I had more thoughts, but no time.

Team Valor 4lyfe.

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Insides

Day 12. 0 pages, 0 words. I was really hoping to get it finished today but it doesn’t look like time is on my side. And the weekend doesn’t look good either. I mean, it looks good … just not promising for this story, which turned out to be quite a lot longer and more complicated than I thought. In fact, I’m wondering if it’s going to be too intricate and complex for the audience. Hmm. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to raise my expectations of my audience.

Last night, when offered a choice between Harry Potter and “insides”, Wump decided she wanted to look at insides.

This harks back to a year or more ago, when I entertained her for an evening showing her pictures on my phone’s Google Image Search of the human digestive system and internal organs.

She decided she wanted to do it again, so I lay down and told her a bedtime story about the Gall Bladder, the Pancreas, and What Exactly Happened To Humans’ Tails.

True story. Screencaps taken in real time.

I tried to make a moral to the story, about how the human swallowing reflex works and why you’re much more likely to have food go down the wrong pipe if you’re talking and yelling and bouncing around while you eat. But I’m not sure she really took it to heart.

Oh well. It was fun.

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